Why? The city is lost, man!”
“The Queen ordered us to send regular reports through gateways,” Guybon said. “Eventually, she’s going to wonder why we haven’t sent a messenger. She will send a channeler to see why we haven’t reported, and that messenger will arrive at the Palace’s Traveling ground. It—”
“My Lord!” a voice called. “My Lord Talmanes!”
Guybon cut off, and Talmanes turned to find Filger—one of the scouts—scrambling up the bloodied cobbles of the hillside toward him. Filger was a lean man with thinning hair and a couple of days’ worth of scruff, and the sight of him filled Talmanes with dread. Filger was one of those they’d left guarding the city gate below.
“My Lord,” Filger said, panting, “the Trollocs have taken the city walls. They’re packing the ramparts, loosing arrows or spears at anyone who draws too close. Lieutenant Sandip sent me to bring you word.”
“Blood and ashes! What of the gate?”
“We’re holding,” Filger said. “For now.”
“Guybon,” Talmanes said, turning back. “Show some mercy, man; someone needs to defend that gate. Please, take the refugees out and reinforce my men. That gate will be our only method of retreat from the city.”
“But the Queen’s messenger—”
“The Queen will figure out what bloody happened once she thinks to look here. Look about you! Trying to defend the Palace is madness. You don’t have a city any longer, but a pyre.”
Guybon’s face was conflicted, his lips a tight line.
“You know I’m right,” Talmanes said, his face twisted in pain. “The best thing you can do is reinforce my men at the southern gate to hold it open for as many refugees as can reach it.”
“Perhaps,” Guybon said. “But to let the Palace burn?”
“You can make it worth something,” Talmanes said. “What if you left some soldiers to fight at the Palace? Have them hold off the Trollocs as long as they can. That will draw the Trollocs away from the people escaping out this way. When they can hold no longer, your soldiers can escape the Palace grounds on the far side, and make their way around to the southern gate.”
“A good plan,” Guybon said, grudgingly. “I will do as you suggest, but what of you?”
“I have to get to the dragons,” Talmanes said. “We cant let them fall to the Shadow. They’re in a warehouse near the edge of the Inner City. The Queen wanted them kept out of sight, away from the mercenary bands outside. I have to find them. If possible, retrieve them. If not, destroy them.”
“Very well,” Guybon said, turning away, looking frustrated as he accepted the inevitable. “My men will do as you suggest; half will lead the refugees out, then help your soldiers hold the southern gate. The other half will hold the Palace a little longer, then withdraw. But I’m coming with you.
“Do we really need so many lamps in here?” the Aes Sedai demanded from her stool at the back of the room. It might as well have been a throne. “Think of the oil you’re wasting.”
“We need the lamps.” Androl grunted. Night rain pelted the window, but he ignored it, trying to focus on the leather he was sewing. It would be a saddle. At the moment, he was working on the girth that would go around the horse’s belly.
He poked holes into the leather in a double row, letting the work calm him. The stitching chisel he used made diamond-shaped holes—he could use the mallet on them for speed, if he wanted, but right now he liked the feel of pressing the holes without it.
He picked up his stitch-mark wheel, measuring off the locations for the next stitches, then worked another of the holes. You had to line the flat sides of the diamonds toward one another for holes like this, so that when the leather pulled, it didn’t pull on the flats. The neat stiches would help keep the saddle in good shape over the years. The rows needed to be close enough together to reinforce one another, but not so close that there was danger of them ripping into one another. Staggering the holes helped.
Little things. You just had to make sure the little things were done right, and—
His fingers slipped, and he punched a hole with the diamond pointing the wrong way. Two of the holes ripped into one another at the motion.
He nearly tossed the entire thing across the room in frustration. That was the fifth time tonight!
Light, he thought, pressing his hands on the table. What’s happened to my self-control?
He could answer that question with ease, unfortunately. The Black Tower is what happened. He felt like a multilegged nachi trapped in a dried-up tidal pool, waiting desperately for the water to return while watching a group of children work their way down the beach with buckets, gathering up anything that looked tasty . . .
He breathed in and out, then picked up the leather. This would be the shoddiest piece he’d done in years, but he would finish it. Leaving something unfinished was nearly as bad as messing up the details.
“Curious,” said the Aes Sedai—her name was Pevara, of the Red Ajah. He could feel her eyes on his back.
A Red. Well, common destinations made for unusual shipmates, as the old Tairen saying went. Perhaps he should use the Saldaean proverb instead. If his sword is at your enemy’s throat, don’t waste time remembering when it was at yours.
“So,” Pevara said, “you were telling me about your life prior to coming to the Black Tower?”
“I don’t believe that I was,” Androl said, beginning to sew. “Why? What did you want to know?”
“I’m simply curious. Were you one of those who came here on his own, to be tested, or were you one of those they found while out hunting?”
He pulled a thread tight. “I came on my own, as I believe Evin told you yesterday, when you asked him about me.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I’m being monitored, I see.”
He looked toward her, lowering the leather. “Is that something they teach you?”
“What?” Pevara asked innocently.
“To twist a conversation about. There you sit, all but accusing me of spying on you—when you were the one interrogating my friends about me.
I want to know what my resources are.”
“You want to know why a man would choose to come to the Black Tower. To learn to channel the One Power.”
She didn’t answer. He could see her deciding upon a response that would not run afoul of the Three Oaths. Speaking with an Aes Sedai was like trying to follow a green snake as it slipped through damp grass.
“Yes,” she said.
He blinked in surprise.
“Yes, I want to know,” she continued. “We are allies, whether either of us desires it or not. I want to know what kind of person I’ve slipped into bed with.” She eyed him. “Figuratively speaking, of course.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to become calm. He hated talking with Aes Sedai, with them twisting everything about. That, mixed with the tension of the night and the inability to get this saddle right . . .
He would be calm, Light burn him!
“We should practice making a circle,” Pevara said. “It will be an advantage to us—albeit a small one—against Taim’s men, should they come for us.”
Androl put his dislike of the woman from his mind—he had other things to worry about—and forced himself to think objectively. “A circle?”
“Do you not know what one is?”
“Afraid not.”
She pursed her lips. “Sometimes I forget how ignorant all of you are . . .” She paused, as if realizing she’d said too much.
“All men are ignorant, Aes Sedai,” Androl said. “The topics of our ignorance may change, but the nature of the world is that no man may know everything.”
That didn’t seem to be the answer she’d been expecting, either. Those hard eyes studied him. She didn’t like men who could channel—most people didn’t—but with her it was more. She had spent her life hunting down men like Androl.
“A circle,” Pevara said, “is created when women and men join their strength
in the One Power together. It must be done in a specific way.”
“The M’Hael will know about it, then.”
“Men require women to form a circle,” Pevara said. “In fact, a circle must contain more women than men except in very limited cases. One woman and man can link, as can one woman and two men, as can two women and two men. So the largest we could create is a circle of three, with me and two of you. Still, it could be of use to us.”
“I’ll find you two of the others to practice with,” Androl said. “Among those I trust, I’d say that Nalaam is the strongest. Emarin is very powerful too, and I don’t think he’s yet reached the height of his strength. Same for Jonneth.”
“They are the strongest?” Pevara asked. “Not yourself?”
“No,” he said, returning to his work. That rain picked up again outside, and chill air slipped under the door. One of the room’s lamps was burning low nearby, letting shadows into the room. He watched the darkness uncomfortably.
“I find that hard to believe, Master Androl,” she said. “They all look to you.”
“Believe what you wish, Aes Sedai. I’m weakest among them. Perhaps the weakest man in the Black Tower.”
This quieted her, and Androl rose to refill that dwindling lamp. As he sat back down, a rap on the door announced the entrance of Emarin and Canler. Although both were wet from the rain, they were nearly as opposite as men could be. One was tall, refined and careful, the other crotchety and prone to gossip. They had found common ground, somewhere, and seemed to enjoy one another’s company.
“Well?” Androl asked.
“It might work,” Emarin said, taking off his rain-soaked coat and hanging it on a hook beside the door. He wore clothing underneath embroidered after the Tairen style. “It would need to be a powerful rainstorm. The guards watch carefully.”
“I feel like the prize bull at a fair,” Canler grumbled, stomping some of the mud off his boots after hanging up his coat. “Everywhere we go, Taim’s favored watch us from the corners of their eyes. Blood and ashes, Androl. They know. They know we’re going to try running.”
“Did you find any weak points?” Pevara asked, leaning forward. “Someplace where the walls are less guarded?”
“It appears to depend upon the guards chosen, Pevara Sedai,” Emarin said, nodding to her.
“Hmm ... I suppose that it would. Have I mentioned how intriguing I find it that the one of you who treats me with the most respect is a Tairen?”
“Being polite to a person is not a sign of respect for them, Pevara Sedai,” Emarin said. “It is merely a sign of a good upbringing and a balanced nature.”
Androl smiled. Emarin was an absolute wonder with insults. Half the time, the person didn’t figure out that he’d been mocked until they’d parted ways.
Pevara’s mouth pursed. “Well, then. We watch the rotation of guards. When the next storm arrives, we will use it as cover and escape over the wall near the guards we think are less observant.”
The two men turned to Androl, who caught himself watching the corner of the room where the shadow fell from a table. Was it growing larger? Reaching toward him . . .
“I don’t like leaving men behind,” he said, forcing himself to look away from the corner. “There are dozens upon dozens of men and boys here who aren’t yet under Taim’s control. We can’t possibly lead all of them out without drawing attention. If we leave them, we risk . . .”
He couldn’t say it. They didn’t know what was happening, not really. People were changing. Once-trustworthy allies became enemies overnight.
They looked like the same people, yet different at the same time. Different behind the eyes. Androl shivered.
“The women sent by the rebel Aes Sedai are still outside the gates,” Pevara said. They had been camped out there for a time, claiming the Dragon Reborn had promised them Warders. Taim had yet to let any of them in. “If we can reach them, we can storm the Tower and rescue those left behind.”
“Will it really be that easy?” Emarin asked. “Taim will have an entire village of hostages. A lot of the men brought their families.”
Canler nodded. His family was one of those. He wouldn’t willingly leave them.
“Beyond that,” Androl said softly, turning on his stool to face Pevara, “do you honestly think the Aes Sedai can win here?”
“Many of them have decades—some centuries—of experience.”
“How much of that was spent fighting?”
Pevara did not answer.
“There are hundreds of men who can channel in here, Aes Sedai,” Androl continued. “Each one has been trained—at length—to be a weapon. We don’t learn about politics or history. We don’t study how to influence nations. We learn to kill. Every man and boy here is pushed to the edges of his capacity, forced to stretch and grow. Gain more power. Destroy. And a lot of them are insane. Can your Aes Sedai fight that? Particularly when many of the men we trust—the very men we’re trying to save—will likely fight alongside Taim’s men if they see the Aes Sedai trying to invade?”
“Your arguments are not without merit,” Pevara said.
Just like a queen, he thought, unwillingly impressed at her poise.
“But surely we need to send information out,” Pevara continued. “An all-out assault may be unwise, but sitting here until we are all taken, one at a time . . ”
“I do believe it would be wise to send someone,” Emarin said. “We need to warn the Lord Dragon.”
“The Lord Dragon,” Canler said with a snort, taking a seat by the wall. “He’s abandoned us, Emarin. We’re nothing to him. It—”
“The Dragon Reborn carries the world on his shoulders, Canler,” Androl said softly, catching Canler up short. “I don’t know why he’s left us here, but I’d prefer to assume it’s because he thinks we can handle ourselves.” Androl fingered the straps of leather, then stood up. “This is our time of proving, the test of the Black Tower. If we have to run to the Aes Sedai to protect us from our own, we subject ourselves to their authority. If we have to run to the Lord Dragon, then we will be nothing once he is gone.”
“There can be no reconciliation with Taim, now,” Emarin said. “We all know what he is doing.”
Androl didn’t look at Pevara. She had explained what she suspected was happening, and she—despite years of training at keeping her emotions in check—had not been able to quiet the fear in her voice as she spoke of it. Thirteen Myrddraal and thirteen channelers, together in a horrifying rite, could turn any channeler to the Shadow. Against his will. “What he does is pure, undiluted evil,” Pevara said. “This is no longer a division between the men who follow one leader and those who follow another. This is the Dark One’s work, Androl. The Black Tower has fallen under the Shadow. You must accept that.”
“The Black Tower is a dream,” he said, meeting her eyes. “A shelter for men who can channel, a place of our own, where men need not fear, or run, or be hated. I will not surrender that to Taim. I will not.”
The room fell silent save for the sounds of rain on the windows. Emarin began to nod, and Canler stood up, taking Androl by the arm.
“You’re right,” Canler said. “Burn me if you ain’t right, Androl. But what can we do? We’re weak, outnumbered.”
“Emarin,” Androl said, “did you ever hear about the Knoks Rebellion?
Indeed. It caused quite a stir, even outside of Murandy.”
“Bloody Murandians,” Canler spat. “They’ll steal your coat off your back and beat you bloody if you don’t offer your shoes, too.”
Emarin raised an eyebrow.
“Knoks was well outside Lugard, Canler,” Androl said. “I think you d find the people there not dissimilar to Andorans. The rebellion happened about ... oh, ten years back, now.”
“A group of farmers overthrew their lord,” Emarin said. “He deserved it, by all accounts—Desartin was a horrid person, particularly to those beneath him. He had a force of soldiers, one of the largest outside of Lugard, a
nd was looking as if he’d set up his own little kingdom. There wasn’t a thing the King could do about it.”
“And Desartin was overthrown?” Canler asked.
“By simple men and women who had had too much of his brutality, Androl said. “In the end, many of the mercenaries who had been his cronies stood with us. Though he’d seemed so strong, his rotten core led to his downfall. It seems bad here, but most of Taim’s men are not loyal to him. Men like him don’t inspire loyalty. They collect cronies, others who hope to share in the power or wealth. We can and will find a way to overthrow him.”
The others nodded, though Pevara simply watched him with pursed lips. Androl couldn’t help feeling a bit of the fool; he didn’t think the others should be looking to him, instead of someone distinguished like Emarin or someone powerful like Nalaam.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the shadows underneath the table lengthen, reaching for him. He set his jaw. They wouldn’t dare take him with so many people around, would they? If the shadows were going to consume him, they’d wait until he was alone, trying to sleep.
Nights terrified him.
They’re coming when I don’t hold to saidin now, he thought. Burn me, the Source was cleansed! I’m not supposed to be losing more of my wits!
He gripped the seat of his stool until the terror retreated, the darkness withdrawing. Canler—looking uncharacteristically cheerful—said he was going to fetch them something to drink. He wandered toward the kitchen, but nobody was to go about alone, so he hesitated.
“I suppose I could use a drink as well,” Pevara said with a sigh, joining him.
Androl sat down to continue his work. As he did, Emarin pulled over a stool, settling down beside him. He did so nonchalantly, as if merely looking for a good place to relax and wanting a view out the window.
Emarin, however, wasn’t the type to do things without several motivations. “You fought in the Knoks Rebellion,” Emarin said softly.
“Did I say that?” Androl resumed his work on the leather.
“You said that when the mercenaries switched sides, they fought with you. You used the word ‘us’ to refer to the rebels.”
A Memory of Light Page 6